A walkway led between two old, white buildings into a wide courtyard where a large fountain gurgled and most students passed by without seeing the beautiful sculpted figures at the center. They were unrecognizable to me, but there was something in the way they rounded and glowed in the daylight that spoke peace. I’d bring Twila here later and ask her about them.
There were numbers on the buildings and Hawthorne Hall was off in a secluded corner of the quad, shaded by jacaranda trees that stubbornly clung to the last of their purple flowers. The front door opened automatically as I approached, and the rubber soles of my shoes squealed loudly on the tiled hallway as I looked for the stairs.
The second floor was carpeted, an ugly, stained, gray Berber that was probably next on a long list of renovations and updates. The offices ran along one side of the corridor, doors in need of repainting, windows covered in flyers and announcements and years old tape that had never been scraped off.
There was something in the way years of school history layered upon themselves that made me feel at home.